The Magus Chronicles Book One: Nightsong
by Sylvan
Summary: When Magus encounters a stranger who possesses great knowledge of his past, he once again finds himself facing his demons. But is this newcomer friend or foe, savior or spy?
1. Chapter 1: Sharlot

The Magus Chronicles

Book One: Nightsong

Chapter One: Sharlot

Midnight is the witching hour - or so the superstitious claim. But Magus didn't really have room for superstition, and traveling during the day had proved rather trying, his red-violet eyes nearly blinded by the sunlight and his colorless complexion unable to stand the beams that shot down from the burning mass. Albinism had never been a picnic, but he'd learned to live with it, even though he still wondered why only his midnight blue hair decided to have pigment. He wasn't even quite sure he remembered what had brought him to such a sunny country in the first place. After departing Leene Square, he'd returned to the Middle Ages to resume his search for his sister, but Imarn was seeming like another dead end to him.

True, he was better accepted in Imarn, where Magical ability and pointed ears weren't viewed as freakish. It only took him a few minutes in town to determine that he'd spent far too many years among Humans. Seeing other Elves again was refreshing, and Imarnish libraries supposedly held the most information on Mystics (the Elven kind, not those foolish beings he'd been surrounded by in Medina) of any in the world. Perhaps if they remembered the Zealans, he had a better chance of find Schala.

Alas, nothing comes easily. Magus didn't speak a word of the Imarnish tongue and had thus far been unsuccessful in finding anyone who understood Common spoken with _his_ accent. Until now, he hadn't even realized he sounded so much like a Zealan. He'd have thought that the years among native speakers would have faded it, but apparently, he'd been wrong. By the time he was ten years old, he'd already lost the war against the phonemes. Perhaps if he found a larger city, he'd come across _someone_ he could communicate with, but having no one he could talk to now, he couldn't _locate_ the larger cities.

Magus cut his brooding short as he became aware of an approaching figure on the road. Coming over the rolling hills of greenery and swirling mists was the silhouette of a woman - no, a girl, the Zealan decided as she drew closer. She was small, and her build was slight and more childlike than a grown lady's was.

As she drew closer, Magus became more and more suspicious that she was perhaps related to a pixie. Compared to the sorcerer, this new traveler was especially tiny - not standing five feet tall and possessing a frame that could only be described as "willowy." She was a pretty, little sprite, looking to be about fourteen or fifteen to the Elves, owning the delicate beauty of a china doll. Her complexion was dark beside the Zealan's but still rather fair, and her hair fell in silky waves of a dark, ginger color. Her eyes sparkled a shade of turquoise that reminded him in some ways of his beloved sister, and the slant of her eyes and the curve of her cheekbones called to mind unmistakably his own people. Despite her small stature and red hair, he found himself convinced that Zealan blood ran in her veins.

The girl wrapped her forest green cloak more tightly about her willowy frame but approached the sorcerer in brisk, measured steps. "Goodevenin'," she brogued, though remarkably more clearly than anyone else he had yet encountered in this country.

"It's awfully late for children to be out," he remarked nonchalantly. _And any time is an odd one for a child to be approaching me._

"Well," she replied, "travelers cannot _always_ choose their time to travel, regardless of age."

Magus raised an eyebrow. _Child, I could be anyone. Who I am is bad enough, and I could be so much worse._ "What do you want of me?"

The girl rocked back on her heel, clasping her hands behind her back. "Well, ya see... Ya're not from 'round here, and I noticed you were havin' troubles understandin' people."

"You noticed I was having trouble... back in town?" The girl nodded. Magus cast a glance behind her in the direction she'd come from but made no comment. "What are you hoping to gain from it?"

"_My_ home is a long way from here, and I don't have much money left. I thought maybe ya needed a guide-"

"Girl, don't you realize I could be a rapist or a murderer?" _Either you're bullshitting, or your parents taught you that strangers have the best candy!_

Oddly enough, the corners of the girl's mouth twitched in some form of barely-suppressed amusement. "Be that as it may," she responded dryly, "I'm already out here alone with ya, and there's no changin' that, now." She smirked in a way that almost reminded him of himself. "And you're also the most concerned predator I've ever met," she added in perfect Zealan.

Magus stared at her. He was convinced now that someone _must_ have sent this girl, but his curiosity was overwhelming him. "What's your name?" he asked in his native tongue.

"Sharlot Taishani M'leira," she responded. Taishani - a Zealan name, meaning "small lady." "Do we have a deal, then?"

"I suppose we do," the sorcerer mused. "You may call me 'Magus.'"

Sharlot grinned broadly, turquoise eyes bright. "Alright, then, Magus. Shall we be off?"

Disclaimer: While I would absolutely love to own Magus... er... the rights to Chrono Trigger, I do not. They belong to Square.

Author's Note: I should have the next chapter up within a week... providing my internet decides to start working in my dorm again. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if I could get some reviews to let me know how I'm doing. Thanks:)


	2. Chapter 2: A Matter of Trust

The Magus Chronicles

Book One: Nightsong

Chapter Two: A Matter of Trust

Merrin wasn't a considerable city, but it was populated enough to make Magus's skin crawl. He never did enjoy the company of _people_, and in large groups, they could find ways of being _particularly_ intolerable. Still, a larger area was more likely to have the information he sought.

His first impression of the town was that it was a comfortable place to live. As the sun rose, children appeared in the street, playing under the watchful eye of their mothers and grandparents, music could be heard in the marketplace, and the smell of bread baking filled the air. It was a relaxed sort of life, the kind Magus knew he could never have – the kind he couldn't even say he wanted any more.

The inn was comfortable, as well. He'd chosen a quiet room at the end of the hall. Sharlot's was beside his, but for all he heard from her in there she might have fallen off the End of Time. As long as she left him to his business, he didn't care how she occupied her time.

But she still troubled him. She was offering services as a guide and interpreter, leading him wherever he asked, but the price she required for her assistance was trivial in comparison. She asked for nothing but for her room and board and supplies to be paid for, and surely, she could have these bare necessities paid for at home by family. He wondered if she was a runaway, but she, of course, denied that her relations with her parents were anything less than warm and that she left home without their knowledge. Besides, a girl of Zealan ancestry falling out of nowhere was still suspicious, all other matters aside.

So, he needed someone else to ease his dependency, then. If he relied solely on Sharlot for communication between himself and everyone he encountered, there would be nothing to say she wasn't lying, but if he could find another native and if their claims did not conflict, he would be more certain of what they told him. Then, the only problem was finding another contact.

Thus far, his efforts had proved ineffective. Two hours of wandering about town, and he still hadn't located anyone who could understand his speech well enough to be any use. He sat in a tavern, now, brooding, certain the owner was growing more and more frustrated with his lack of interest in buying but not particularly caring. The people of Imarn, Sharlot had warned him, sometimes spoke a strange dialect of Common called "Qinseira". She'd been right about that. He could almost understand when he heard the strange language, but not quite. And the people who spoke it definitely didn't understand anything he said.

Magus groaned inwardly, uncertain of his next course of action. But movement off to his right caught his eye, and he turned to face the young Elven woman who approached him. She was slender of build, but her step lacked the lightness attributed to Elves, even though she made no sound. _The barkeep probably sent her to complain_, he thought irritably. She was going to have a hard time of it, anyway.

But, instead, the woman smiled amiably, brushing strawberry-blonde hair from green eyes. "Good evenin'," she brogued in an accent similar to Sharlot's. "I heard you ask a minute ago for someone who speaks Common."

Magus cleared his throat. "Right. And you are?"

"Iriwinn L'thran." She offered her hand, but Magus waved it off.

"Magus," he told her flatly. "I just need someone to run errands for me, since I can't communicate with most of the people here."

Iriwinn shrugged. "Work is work. I'm just tryin' to get paid."

"Well enough." The simpler the motivation, the easier to deal with, he decided. "We can discuss this elsewhere. Do you have anywhere to be?"

"Nowhere at all. Now's as good a time as any."

Magus had worked out all the specifics with Iriwinn before someone knocked lightly at his doorframe. "Come," he commanded, and Sharlot's willowy form slipped through the cracked door. She froze as her eyes feel on the servant woman.  
"Who's this," she inquired slowly.

"I wanted some additional help," Magus curtly replied.

"Oh…" Sharlot hesitated, eyes uncertain.

"I'm Iriwinn," the woman offered, taking a few steps toward Sharlot and holding out her hand once again."

Sharlot stared at the offered hand, frowning. "I don't subscribe to Mortal formalities," she said finally, "and touchin' hands with a stranger seems unsanitary."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Iriwinn closed her hand, pulling it back. "Well, I should be goin', but I'll have everythin' you asked for ready tomorrow mornin'. Have a pleasant night." Without awaiting a reply from either, she made her way out the door, shutting it behind her.

Sharlot folded her arms and rocked back and forth on her heels, pursing her lips. Magus waited about three seconds before reminding, "You needed something, I assume."

Sharlot snapped her focus back to the present. "I thought I'd ask ya what you wanted done while we're here."

"I'll have to see what comes up. I don't know what's around here."

Sharlot nodded, looking down at the floor. Her brow furrowed and her bottom lip protruded in what Magus was certain was a pout. "Then… why is that woman here?" she asked finally.

"I thought she'd be useful for minor things while we're in town." Magus' answer came fluid and naturally. Common may have been his second language, but he still had mastery over it.

"I could've handled it," the girl protested.

"You needn't bother yourself with it. I'm not trying to replace you."

"That doesn't mean ya trust me." She seemed offended.

"I'm not a very trusting person."

"How am I s'pose to be of any help to ya if ya don't trust me?"

"I'm sure you'll find a way. Perhaps, you're too trusting of me." Magus did not typically concern himself with the safety of others, but Sharlot was young, and he could admit to some amount of sympathy for the very young. He, himself, had been fragile as a child, and that allowed him a sense of necessity in ensuring their survival until they were capable of defending themselves. Carelessness would likely kill so small a girl.

"Ya needn't bother yourself with _my_ well-bein'," she shot back. "Ya're a client, not my keeper."

"No, but you won't be of much help if you get yourself in trouble with strangers. I'm doing you a favor, so pay attention to my advice and don't be curt with me over it."

"L' mitelay!" she exclaimed. "Lle leir rinseirdimad!" She stormed out of the room without another word, slamming the door behind her.

Magus didn't understand a word, but her irritation was plain. His little guide had quite the temper. He'd have to make note of what triggered such strong reactions from Sharlot. Maybe it would provide some insight into why she was _really_ there.

Sharlot stalked down the hall, glaring at nothing in particular. That _man_ was so infuriating! He couldn't be _that_ old, and yet, he spoke to her like a tutor chiding an impudent little child. She had expected him to have nerve – and certainly a lot of pride – but she hadn't agreed to accept insults about her intelligence.

And that woman he'd found didn't fit into her plans at all, either. Her accent resembled _Qinseira_ well enough, but Sharlot couldn't place an exact location for the dialect. It was like a generic Imarnish accent, one used by a foreigner in play-acting. Iriwinn certainly wasn't a native of Merrin, anyway. She wasn't from Ire, either.

_Simply wonderful_, the Elf complained to herself. _I was so _hoping_ for some outside interference to complicate things!_ The Zealan was hard enough to manipulate as it was. She'd never get anything done, now.

Think of a demon and you'll summon one – that's what Elders always said. Sharlot looked up to see the suspicious servant standing at the end of the hall.

"Iriwinn, g'eirte!" Sounding happy to see the woman proved harder than Sharlot would have liked, but she managed. "M'llen aruh mar?"

Iriwinn smiled sweetly but shook her head. "Please, I prefer to speak in Common to those that understand it. If we don't use a language, we're certain to forget it."

"O' course," Sharlot answered. "But, really, where are ya from? Surely ya don't expect to fool a native with that excuse?"

"Ya're a strange one," Iriwinn said, wrinkling her nose.

"Right. Listen, I don't know what ya hope to accomplish here, but Magus has enough problems without dealin' with lyin' foreigners. And I'm not too friendly with people who get in the way."


	3. Chapter 3: Deception

Author's Note: The long overdue third chapter has arrived! I've been tied up lately, but I seem to be on a writing streak the past week or so, so hopefully chapter four won't take long. Enjoy!

The Magus Chronicles

Book One: Nightsong

Chapter Three: Deception

"Pardon m' curiosity, sir, but where did ya happen to find such a strange child as that girl?" Iriwinn was glancing over a list that Magus had handed her.

"Out on the road several nights back," he answered offhandedly. He was glancing through a small leather-bound book, where he kept all his notes and leads about his sister. His sister's disappearance in their own time had led him to believe that she must have been thrown through a gate herself, and he'd decided he needed a more systematic approach than combing every inch of the world throughout history. "Why do you ask?"

"'Tis only that…" The servant hesitated. "Well, she's odd," she finished.

"I see…" Magus looked up. He found Sharlot odd, as well, but he had little experience with young girls, and any additional information could serve him well. Besides, it was necessary to appear relatively normal to this woman. He didn't need the sort of trouble he often found in Guardia in recent years. "How so?"

"She… doesn't want anyone else near ya."

Magus frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I think she was tryin' to threaten me yesterday."

Magus pursed his lips. "That little slip of a girl? Don't tell me you're afraid of her."

"No, but 'tis abnormal. She's not a relative or anythin'?"

"I have no relation to that sprite, and I wouldn't claim one if I did," Magus told her flatly. The child was useful, but she was foolish, and he'd never connect himself with anyone so lacking in basic common sense.

"Then, she certainly isn't your lover…"

Magus bristled. "What are you insinuating?" he snapped. "By the Void, no! I've had no relations with her beyond the communication necessary for her to guide me through this country." His eyes glistened coldly as he glared at the woman.

"I'm very sorry, sir!" The servant bowed her, deeply apologetic. "'Tis only, she's almost jealously protective of you. She tried to chase me away, like I was somehow interferin' or somethin'."

The sorcerer's scowl deepened, but he turned his gaze to the floor. So, Sharlot didn't want anyone to come near him, did she? She hadn't shown any affection toward him in particular, but she was overly willing to trust him. "What did she say exactly?"

"She told me she wasn't 'too friendly' to those who got in her way. For the life o' me, I don't know what she meant. To be quite honest, she belongs in an asylum."

"Perhaps," Magus remarked, half to himself. "You may go, now, but if anything else strange happens, let me know."

The woman nodded her agreement and slipped out the door, muttering to herself about lunatics.

Magus could easily admit that his guide was strange, but she wasn't a lunatic. He'd spent enough time around lunatics to know. Iriwinn believed she was a stalker, a perversion of a love-struck schoolgirl, but her demeanor toward him left no indication of a romantic obsession. There was no reason for it, either; she couldn't have possibly known anything of him before he came to Imarn.

No, the behavior the servant described was more indicative of someone who was hiding something. If Sharlot didn't want anyone near Magus, it was because she wanted to keep a secret, not because she feared losing imaginary affections. Then, she was most likely trying to manipulate him in some way, whether for her own purposes or those of another. His instincts told him that it was another's.

Magus shook his head, turning his attention to the food Iriwinn had brought him. In another time, a suspicion would have been enough that he could have dragged his information from Sharlot by torture and killed her before sunrise. But she was too young for it to have ever been a settling concept to him, and he had seen Schala too recently not to sense the heartache such a thought would have caused her.

No, bloodshed wasn't the answer – at least, not now. He would discover who Sharlot was aiding, then decide what to do with her. And deal with her leader.

"I may not know you, Magus," Sharlot said in the sorcerer's native tongue, "but I can tell something's happened. You're shorter with me than usual. You haven't spoken to me in four days. I don't think you've even left this room in three."

"I've told you," Magus growled, sitting up straighter in his chair. "It's none of your concern. Now, leave!" His patience was wearing thin. His head throbbed with a nearly unbearable pain, and his throat felt raw enough to bleed. Magus, who had only on rare occasions ever fallen ill in his life, was certainly very ill, now.

"Magus, what's wrong with you? Don't tell me there's nothing. I've never seen you so pale as now. I didn't think it possible."

"I tell you it's nothing. Now, go!"

Sharlot sighed resignedly. "Alright, if that's what you want. Only, promise me you'll at least get some rest. You need sleep."

"Anything if you'll remove yourself from my presence," Magus muttered darkly.

With a silent nod, Sharlot left the room, her shoulders slumped. She glanced back at him as she closed the door, a deep frown upon her brow.

Magus went to the door and locked it, leaning heavily on the wall for a moment, his head resting in his hands. He was dizzy; he couldn't remember feeling so ill. He could feel the fever burning through him, a wildfire in his veins, but he was freezing. He'd never been so cold.

Taking slow, unsteady steps, Magus made his way to the single bed in the room. He may not have been able to trust Sharlot, but her advice was sound; he needed rest. Pulling every blanket on the bed up around his shoulders, the sorcerer drifted off into a deeper sleep than he'd known in years.

* * *

Janus stared at the marble floors of the halls of Zeal Palace. The stone felt cold under his bare feet, but comfortably so. But somewhere in the palace, he could hear water rushing. Its whispers echoed through the hall, and the Black Wind had begun to howl.

Water began to seep from the walls. It rained from the ceiling. It flowed down the stairs. But, no, not water. Blood – so thick it was almost black – and cold as ice. The scent of iron was overwhelming, and he could taste it in the back of his throat. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't remember how; he no longer knew how to be afraid.

A slender figure lit the doorway atop the stairs, and Janus knew the angelic form before he turned. "Janus!" Schala cried in anguish. The boy whirled to face his sister, his heart pounding.

The blood had soaked into her icy blue hair and stained her fair skin. Tears streaked her face, leaving lines in the crimson spatters. "Schala…" Janus whispered, reaching toward his only companion. He moved for the steps, but something caught him by the ankles, dragging him down. He tried to scream again to scream, but no sound escaped his lips.

Schala raced down the stairs, gripping the railing with white knuckles. She stretched her hand toward him, her fingertips brushing his. But his captor dragged him down, pulling him under the dark, crimson river. He choked on the blood as he tried to inhale. It filled his lungs…

Magus's eyes snapped open as he startled awake, and he sat up quickly. The world spun wildly, and the sorcerer experienced a rare sense of vertigo. He clung to the bed post, shutting opening and shutting his eyes tightly several times until the whirling in his head ceased. It had been years since he'd been so ill.

The sorcerer tensed as he caught sight of Sharlot, the little Elfgirl frozen in a look of unmistakable shock and fear. She clutched his leather-bound book in her hand, the page flipped to somewhere in the middle. She closed it with a snap, returning it to the table gingerly. She stepped back, watching him cautiously.  
"What are you doing in here?" he demanded in a hiss, the threat in his tone emphasized by the dark accent of the Zealan tongue.

"Nothing," she offered meekly, clutching her hands before her. "I was just curious."

"Curiosity is dangerous," he growled, dragging himself to his feet.

Sharlot eyed him cautiously. "So it seems," she replied, the tension apparent in her voice. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Magus leaned heavily against the bed frame, a wave of nausea washing over him.

Sharlot took a step toward him, observing him carefully. "You aren't well, Magus."

The sorcerer didn't respond, choosing instead to rush toward the window. He threw open the casement and was immediately violently ill onto the grass below. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of Sharlot's slender hands pulling his hair back from his face. They felt refreshingly cool as they brushed his neck.  
"You have a terrible fever," she murmured.

Magus spat, trying to rid himself of the taste of bile. "Don't ever go through my possessions again," he whispered harshly.

"I promised I wouldn't, and I won't. I wish you'd trust me."

Magus straightened, shutting the window and turning back to Sharlot. He leaned heavily against the wall.

Sharlot stepped back, looking up at him. "I'm taking you to a Healer tomorrow morning. No arguing."

"No arguing," Magus agreed wearily. "Now, leave."

With a nod, Sharlot made her way to the door and slipped out of the room. Magus waited until the door had clicked shut before he made his way back to his bed. He barely pulled the blankets up around himself before sleep claimed him once more.


End file.
